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THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE 
ON THE ALBANY ROAD 



BY 



GEORGE SHELDON 



(Cop^rigbteb) 



Reprinted from the 
September, 1898 



17010 




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The Little Brown House on the Albany Rodtd. 




By George Sheldon. 





THE transformation is wonderful; 
it seems almost a work of magic. 
The story of Aladdin's Lamp 
cannot be wholly a myth. The 
sky no longer looks through a gaping 
roof to a yawning cellar. The rain, 
the hail and snow no longer enter as 
if welcome guests. Warp and woof, 
fashioned and dyed in the Orient, sup- 
plants the rubbish on the rotting 
floors. Stuffs, rich and rare, flow 
from walls no longer black with 
smoke and grime. Festoons, rivaling 
in texture those from the loom of the 
spider, which they displace, show ar- 
tistic taste and delight the eye. Pic- 
tures and works of art fill every 
"coigne of vantage." 

Gone the staggering partitions; 
gone the low, brown, ragged ceiling. 
The long slanting rafters are in full 
view. The massive chimney and the 
rotund oven stand displayed. Kitchen 
and bedroom, pantry and parlor have 
disappeared in one generous whole. 
Through the narrow windows, invit- 
ing streams of soft light from elegant 
lamps are sent abroad into the night 
towards every point of the compass. 
The genii of the place preside over 
cheerful hospitality within, where so 
lately a sad spirit of seclusion and 
gloomy content held sway. No con- 



trast could be greater. In the yellow 
light, thrown fitfully out from the 
burning logs in the huge fireplace, 
graceful forms flit to and fro, appear- 
ing and disappearing with the fantas- 
tic shadows upon the red wainscoted 
wall. Sweet music is heard, soft and 
weird, aS if afar ofif, and stories are 
told of witches urging their broom- 
stick steeds across the stormy mid- 
night sky to festive meetings in 
uncanny nooks w'ith still more un- 
canny folk. 

The Antiquary sits upon the 
hearthstone and muses. The change 
seems so unreal and bewildering; he 
cannot draw the line, and the past 
will mingle with the present. He 
watches the sparks and the curling 
smoke as they rise towards boundless 
space, and voices of the unseen catch 
his responsive ear. He hears, in 
the mouth of the cavernous oven 
hard by, whisperings and wailings 
from the spirits of the past, — the 
household familiars. Driven from 
old haunts they have crowded the 
oven for shelter, as one of the few 
undesecrated spots. "We claim," 
they say, "recognition before our final 
departure. Behold what we bring, 
and record what you will." And the 
Antiquary sees a shadowy procession 



THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE 



issuing forth from the mouth of the 
oven and bearing open scrolls on 
which are pictured events centering 
around this old hearthstone, — plain 
matters of fact, scenes of joy, scenes of 
sorrowing, of triumph, of despair, de- 
tails of everyday life and duty in the 
far off past. Shadowy and dim, grow- 
ing brighter and clearer, the vision 
passes upward, disappearing with the 
smoke and the sparks. Thus im- 
pelled, the Antiquary records in 
homely phrase the result of his mus- 
ings in the little brown cottage by the 
old Albany road on the evening of its 
dedication to a new purpose and to a 



to his successor in ofitice, Rev. Jona- 
than Ashley. 

As in later days, so in the olden 
time, leased lands fared hardly. Every 
thing possible was taken from it, and 
little or nothing returned. In 1759, 
after seventy years of this kind of 
treatment, the selectmen in a petition 
to the General Court say, "the soil is 
poor and barren for want of manure," 
also that the land is of less benefit to 
the minister than its value in money 
would be, and they ask leave of the 
General Court to sell it. There was, 
however, another reason for this ac- 
tion, and, it may be, the main one. 




"the transformation is wonderful." 



new lease of life by its new occupants. 
The little brown house stands on a 
part of the tract which in 1686 the 
"Proprietors of Pocumtuck" "seques- 
tered for the use of the ministry of 
Deerfield forever." In this service the 
lot was leased from year to year by a 
committee chosen by the town, the 
income of it going, during his life- 
time, to the Rev. John Williams, our 
"Redeemed Captive," and afterwards 



Deerfield was then the center of 
business for a large region round 
about, and craftsmen of many kinds — 
"tradesmen" they were then called — 
were seeking places here on which to 
build shops where they could exercise 
their handicrafts. Suitable locations 
were hard to get, and the ministerial 
lot, lying along the Albany road, was 
wanted for that purpose. In 1760, un- 
der the authority of an act of the colo- 



ON THE ALBANY ROAD. 




THE HOUSEHOLD FAMILIARS. 

nial legislature, this tract was cut up 
into small lots by the town and sold 
to tradesmen. It had been laid out 
originally between the house lot of the 
"Worshipful John Pynchon" on the 
south and the Middle Lane to the 
meadows on the north. The Pynchon 
lot was later the home of Mehuman 
Hinsdale, the first white man born in 
Deerfield, "twice captivated by the 
Indian salvages," as his grave-stone 
testifies. The Middle Lane became in 
due time the high road from Northern 
Hampshire to Albany and the scene 
of military operations against Canada 
by the way of the lakes. The lots sold 
to tradesmen faced north on this road. 
Many now living have seen the guide- 
board at the head of the "Lane," on 
which was a hand with the forefinger 
pointing westward, directing the trav- 
eler "To Albany." 

Very soon this poor and barren 
land bore abundant fruit. Buildings 
sprang up, and new sounds were 
heard all along its border. The clang 
of the anvil and the blast from the bel- 
lows of Armorer Bull answered to the 
hissing of the flip iron and tap of the 
toddy-stick of his neighbor, Landlord 
Saxton. The ting-a-ling of Silver- 
smith Parker more than held its own 
with the muffled thud from the loom 
of Elizabeth Amsden the weaver, and 



the soft music of 
the flickering 
bowstring of Felt- 
maker Hamilton, 
as it rained blows 
on the fine fur of 
the beaver, musk- 
rat or raccoon. 
The mallet of 
Hitchcock, the 
hatter, responded 
feebly in a dull 
monotone to the 
sharp speaking 
strokes of the 
hammer on the 
lap-stone of Da- 
vid Saxton, as he 
sat at the east 
window of the 
kitchen in the little cottage on the old 
colonial road. 

Should the traveler from the Hud- 
son, coming over the Hoosac Moun- 
tain to the Connecticut Valley, be 
waylaid by prowling Indians, and 
stripped of all his effects, he could be 
refitted and refreshed within the bor- 
ders of the old ministerial lot. Had 
his horse been spared, it could be fed, 
shod, furnished with a new saddle and 
a portmanteau; or had fortune been 
more cruel, had the horse been taken, 




the traveler could be provided with a 
new one from the choice stud of 
Breeder Saxton. He could buy a hat, 
shoes, cloth for a coat, and a watch for 
his fob. He could procure a sword, 
musket, or a pair of pistols, and, after 



THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE 



a mug- of hot flip and a bountiful din- 
ner with Landlord Saxton, the de- 
spoiled stranger could go on his way 
rejoicing, having obtained all these 
things without money, although not 
without price. In those days credit 
was universally given and was rarely 
abused. 

Come back again to the little cot- 
tage where, by the great window in 
the east end of the kitchen, David 
Saxton hammered the oak tanned 



called upon by a neighbor to act as a 
referee on some question in dispute. 
Springing up suddenly, letting his lap- 
stone and hammer tumble to the floor, 
he exclaimed, while whisking ofif his 
leather apron with alacrity: "What 
a cussed thing it is to be a man of 
judgment!" Nevertheless, this son of 
Crispin went his way to exercise this 
judgment for the benefit of his fellows 
with real content. 

Assuming kitchen, dining room and 
shop to be one, while the husband and 




'he hammered and pegged and sewed." 



soles, and with well-waxed home-spun 
thread closed the seams of honest up- 
per leather, with honest toil and good 
judgment. Concerning this latter 
quality there is a story told character- 
istic of the man and bringing him a 
little nearer to us. 

The shoemaker was so often called 
upon to act as referee, arbitrator, ap- 
praiser, etc., that he must be pardoned 
if he became a little vain of his repu- 
tation. He thoroughly enjoyed these 
labors and honors; a little grumbling 
at the burden he might have thought 
increased his importance. One day, 
while at work on his bench, he was 



father hammered and pegged and 
sewed, and sewed and hammered 
and pegged, month after month 
and year after year, his good 
wife, Bathsheba, was always nigh. 
Here she baked, and here she 
brewed, washed, ironed, boiled and 
stewed. From his low bench by 
the east window one day in every 
week David could see the roar- 
ing red fire in the big brick oven in 
front of him, and could watch the 
fierce flames as they curled to its dome 
and darted their forked tongues to- 
wards him, only to be caught at its 
very mouth by the spirits of the air 



ON THE ALBANY ROAD. 




"the buzzing wheel sang a lullaby. 



and sent swiftly up the flue. David 
could watch his spouse, as with her 
long iron peel she removed the glow- 
ing coals when the oven had reached 
the right pitch of heat, and with her 
husk-broom, wetted as need be in a 
pail of water on the hearth, swept 
•clean of ashes the oven floor. And 
when the oven door had been put up 
.a suitable time to "draw down the 
heat," he could see Bathsheba as she 
deftly tossed from her light wooden 
peel, into the farthermost depths of the 
heated cavern, the squat loaves of rye 
.and Indian bread. This peel was as 
white as river sand and "elbow 
•grease" could make it. In due time 
David could snufT the rich savor of 
the brown beauties as they were taken 
out on the peel and piled upon the 
table near him, a good week's supply 
for the family. The front part of the 
oven may have been filled in with 
pumpkin pies, or tarts with the initials 
of the children cut in pie crust on the 
top, or, on state occasions, it may be 
with a spare rib of pork, or a pigling 
entire, a haunch of venison, a wild 
:goose, or a turkey. Nothing came 



amiss to this great, warm-hearted 
friend of the family. 

But the oven had a rival in the at- 
tentions and affection of David. 
Close by, at its right shoulder, was a 
capacious fireplace, with its generous 
back log, fore log and top log, urging 
up the climbing flame, every day, and 
in season all day long. As the mouth 
of the oven was closed six days out of 
seven, it had a poor chance against 
the loquacious fireplace, which by a 
side glance came full in view from the 
shoemaker's bench. Besides, there 
was the great iron dinner pot, which 
the swinging crane held out daily over 
the very heart of the merry fire, that 
welcomed it with great glee, laughing 
and dancing under and about it, em- 
bracing it with its red arms, and 
touching its very lid with its curling 
lips of flame. The stolid iron, yield- 
ing to its ardent friend, was forced to 
acknowledge its subtle influence, and 
soon David could hear the contents 
of the big-bellied pot merrily gurgling 
and babbling of the jolly time they 
were all having, although in hot water 
tosrether. 



THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE 



So the "pot was biled" every day in 
the week. But the marvel and the 
mystery of it ^all — the leaping flame, 
the solid iron, the hissing steam! 
David was no philosopher — the shoe- 
maker should stick to his last. He 
was no Watt, to note the tilting lid. 
He was no chemist, to analyze effects. 
He had a good appetite, engendered 
by healthy toil and a clear con- 
science. He could do ample justice 
to the contents of the pot, when 
piled upon the pewter platter, as the 
style on the sun dial lined with the 
meridian. But he never stopped — - 
why should he — or we either for that 
matter — to speculate upon the daily 
miracle wrought by the loving fire 
spirit of the household. David saw 
Bathsheba put into the mouth of that 
pot cold water, and then beef, pork, 
cabbage, carrots, parsnips, turnips, all 
cold and indigestible; later he had 
stopped with upraised hammer, while 
pegging a sole, to see her swing out 
the crane and souse into the seeth- 
ing mass a bag of Indian pudding, re- 
suming his labor when this was safely 
accomplished. And daily he had seen 



these crude materials come out smok- 
ing, luscious food, fit to "set before 
the king." Therefore the oven got 
the worst of it in the rivalry for the 
affections of David. 

If the oven had thought about it, if 
the fireplace had thought about it, if 
David had thought about it, — which 
none of them did, — they might have 
drawn this moral: Be faithful and 
useful not only one day in seven, but 
every day of the week. 

So by the great east window, where 
the morning sun shone full upon him, 
David hammered and pegged and 
stitched, and pegged and stitched and 
hammered, to secure the understand- 
ing of his customers and bread for his 
wife and children; while Goodwife 
Bathsheba baked and brewed and 
ironed and carded and spun, the hum 
of the wheel in harmony with the 
sound of the hammer. From flax 
taken in barter for the products of Da- 
vid's labor, she spun and twisted the 
honest thread with which his seams 
were closed; and while her foot 
pressed the treadle, and her busy fin- 
gers gauged and guided the slender 




GOD S ACRE. 



ON THE ALBANY ROAD. 



thread her buzzing wheel sang a kil- 
laby, and David with his stirruped 
foot gave an occasional jog to the 
cradle. For amid all the sights and 
sounds of this life of mutual industry 
and helpfulness, children came to be 
cared for and loved, and, alas, to be 
mourned for. Was David seen with 
arms extended as he had drawn home 
the last stitch of a seam, gazing ab- 
stractedly at the empty cradle by the 




THEY REST TOGETHER. 

oven door, we may be sure his 
thoughts were away among the little 
mounds, more or less grassed over, in 
the graveyard hard by. Four times 
during eight years had that cradle 
been robbed. Four times the dread 
messenger had led a procession out 
of the square room beyond the 
kitchen, over the threshold of the 
low-browed front door, to the God's 
Acre at the west end of the ministerial 
lot. 

Should we wonder if the stricken 
Bathsheba put salt for sugar in her 
pies, or seasoned her bread with scald- 
ing brine, when we know that across 
the level field, in full view of the small 
shuttered window of her pantry, slept 
that city of the dead, where four of 
her five darlings had been laid, one by 
one and side by side? For she must 
work as well as weep. By straining 
her eyes, as the bright sunlight 
streamed across the little mounds, the 
mother fancied that she could distin- 



guish between the fresh scar on the 
bosom of mother earth and those 
partly healed by the kindly ministra- 
tions of time, and she sadly compared 
them to the scars in her own bosom; 
only on these time had worked more 
slowly and across these only shadows 
fell. 

It may have been to remove his 
wife from a prospect so saddening 
that David before the birth of another 
babe, or before the brown 
had changed to green on 
the newest mound, left the 
little cottage and sought 
with Bathsheba at New 
Salem that comfort denied 
their parental longings 
here. In their new home 
the fates were kinder, and 
children were born and 
lived to cheer their de- 
clining years. 

On the west side of our 
Old Burying Ground, 
where the gentle breezes 
come up from the mur- 
muring Pocumtuck, where 
the aspen reaches out 
its kindly hands in benediction over 
the spot, and its restless leaves whis- 
per, perchance, tales of bygone years, 
the four little mounds lie, side by side, 
as of old ; but now there are two larger 
and longer ones; and on the moss- 
grown stones standing at the head of 
these are recorded the last events in 
the lives of David and Bathsheba 
Saxton. 

From David Saxton the brown 
house passed to David Hoyt, Senior. 
If Hoyt then took up his abode here, 
it was doubtless to pursue his calling 
of "maker of wiggs and foretops." In 
this polite generation, the owners of 
bald heads are told that this defect is 
a mark of wisdom and honor; conse- 
quently they are apt to be rather 
proud than otherwise of their sterile 
pates. Not so in the time of which we 
speak. Whether it was incense to the 
goddess Hygeia, or a tribute to the 
goddess of fashion, the bald head was 
carefullv covered ; the first ravages by 



8 



THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE 



a foretop or by the side hair combed 
up and braided on the top; total dev- 
astation by a full wig. Women rarely 
needed anything more than a foretop. 
Engaged in a business like this, him- 
self well on in years, we can easily im- 
agine the class of customers and their 
friends that gathered about the 
hearthstone of the wig-maker, sip- 
l)ing their flip or cider and telling 
stories, as men of their age are fond 
of doing. The host doubtless often 
told how his father, when a boy, was 
captured at the sacking of the town in 
1704; how, being carried to Canada, 
he lived with his Indian master at 
Lorette; how William, son of Gov- 
ernor Dudley, then on a mission to 
Vaudreuil, governor of Canada, saw 
him on the streets at Quebec one day, 
and how the envoy jingled twenty sil- 
ver dollars in the face of his Indian 
owner and offered to exchange them 
for the boy; how the savage could not 
withstand the temptation, and the cap- 
tive boy was made free; how the In- 
dian, soon repenting of his bargain, 
came back with the dumb dollars for 
the live bov who could hunt and fish. 



Too late, for Dudley, foreseeing this, 
had hurried Jonath'an on board an 
English vessel, and the Indian went 
away lamenting. David had doubt- 
less often seen this Indian, for in times 
of peace he used to come to Deerfield 
to see the lost boy, of whom he was 
very fond. Jonathan, says tradition, 
showed great affection for the savage 
and declared his sojourn in Canada to 
be the hajipiest part of his life. Of 
course, David talked freely on this 
topic; but there is reason to think he 
was fond of silence. He believed si- 
lence to be kingly, if not golden, and 
so he had married as a second wife 
Silence King. A less sentimental 
reason — she, too, being a "maker 
of foretops" — may have had its 
bearing on the case. Why not? 
Love and thrift are good everyday 
yoke mates ; — blossom and fruit. 
Thriftless love is too unsubstantial for 
use. 

David's stories would doubtless be 
matched by others. Deacon Jeremiah 
Nims, son of that John who was taken 
and carried to Canada from near 
Frary's Bridge in 1703, could tell of 




"IT NESTLED SO SNUGLY UNDER THE GREAT ELM TREE." 



ON THE ALBANY ROAD. 



his father's adventures while in Cana- 
dian captivity and his terrible experi- 
ences when, with three other young 
men, he escaped and made his way 
home through the wilderness, where 
he arrived in a demented state and 
nearly famished. John Williams, Na- 
than Catlin, John Sheldon could each 
relate tales of Indian warfare and cap- 
tivity, heard from their grandfathers; 
while his next door neighbor, Justin 
Hitchcock, could talk of a later war, 
and thrill his hear- 
ers with his own 
experiences while 
responding to the 
Lexington alarm. 
He could tell how 
the inspiring notes 
of his fife renewed 
the tired muscle 
of the Deerfield 
Minute Men under 
Captain Locke on 
their march to 
meet the enraged 
British lion in 
Boston. The fifer 
could also relate 
as an eye witness 
the particulars 
and the result of 
the disastrous 
campaign of Bur- 
goyne, and could 
tell with a relish 
how the company 
of Captain Joseph 
S t e b b i n s and 
others swooped 
down upon the personal baggage 
train of the harassed general, and 
could perhaps show, like some of 
his fellows, trophies harvested on that 
occasion. Captain Joseph himself, 
whose house stood in sight across lots, 
could repeat the well known pranks 
of the mobs he led in visiting the 
tories and enforcing their signatures 
to patriotic resolutions. Others could 
tell stories of witches, or of ghosts, as 
the current talk of the evening might 
run. Meanwhile, the light from the 
blazing hickory logs was casting 




DOORSTONE TALES. 



shadows of the group around the 
hearthstone upon the green baize cur- 
tains of the turn-up bed and the red 
wainscoted walls, where they ap- 
peared huge and weird, like the ghosts 
of restless giants; — pictures quite in 
keeping with the tales that were told. 

About a century ago, Epaphras 
Hoyt, son of David and Silence, be- 
came the owner and occupant of the 
cottage, which then retained its origi- 
nal external form, to which recent 
changes have re- 
stored it. Al- 
though a young 
man, Hoyt 
brought with him 
a valued experi- 
ence, and the at- 
mosphere as well 
as the form of the 
house was gradu- 
ally changed. 
Hoyt was a man 
of genius, whom 
science had 
marked for its 
own, and he gath- 
ered here all kin- 
dred elements in 
the town. His 
Experience, or 
"Spiddy," as she 
was called, bore 
fruit from time to 
time, and wider ac- 
c o m modations 
were required; so 
"Aunt Spiddy's 
bedroom" and 
back kitchen w^ere added in the rear, 
and "Aunt Spiddy's stoop" in front. 

The favorite studies of General 
Hoyt were the art of war, natural 
philosophy, astronomy and colonial 
history. He was in the meridian of 
life when the great wars of Europe 
which followed the "Reign of Terror" 
convulsed that continent. As a mili- 
tary man, he watched the course of 
Napoleon with the deepest interest. 
He followed him step by step, over 
the Alps into Italy, over the sea into 
Egypt, over the Pyrenees into Spain, 



10 



THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE 



where his cannon disturbed the 
"burial of Sir John Moore;" across the 
Rhine to the fields of Ulna and Aus- 
terlitz and Jena and Eylau and Wag- 
ram, as he raged to and fro like a 
demon of destruction, ignoring or 
tearing into tatters, all the established 
rules which had hitherto been the 
guide for the movements of European 
arms on the march or in manoeuvres 
on the field of battle. Here was a rare 
chance to study the art of war on a 
grand scale from a new master. Hoyt, 
like an enthusiastic patriot, gave him- 
self up to it with ardor and success. 
Can we not see him with the poker 
drawing plans in the ashes on this 
great hearth, plans of recent battles to 
illustrate his theme, showing his 
friends how Napoleon had beaten the 
Italians, the Austrians or the Rus- 
sians, by this or that movement, at 
this or that critical moment? The 
point once demonstrated. Aunt 
Spiddy with a few whisks of her 
birchen broom sent the offending 
ashes under the fore stick, sweeping 
aside these plans no more effectually 
than some new burst of genius in the 
Corsican did those of the crowned 
heads of Europe. 

One result of these studies was a 
treatise on "The Military Art," issued 
in 1798, for the use of the United 
States army. This work attracted the 
attention of the first President, and it 
was doubtless by the light of our east 
window that General Hoyt read the 
letter from Washington offering him 
a command in the United States 
army, which was then being organ- 
ized for a conflict with France. Hoyt's 
work passed through several editions, 
and was followed by more elaborate 
works, largely prepared under this 
roof. All were illustrated by plates, 
showing the formation and evolutions 
of companies, regiments and armies, 
on parade and in active service on the 
field. Imagine sketches of these plans 
pinned up on the red wainscoting of 
the kitchen, and note the trouble they 
gave Aunt Spiddy, when the frolic- 
some wind from the open window sent 



them scurrying over her nicely sanded 
floor, with the possibility that some 
might be caught in the draft and 
whisked with the flame and smoke up 
the wide-throated chimney. Hoyt's 
reason for declining the commission 
from Washington we do not know. 
We do know that it was not a lack of 
patriotism or waning love of the mili- 
tary art. Probably he felt the call for 
home duties more urgent. He was 
Inspector-General of the state troops. 
Trouble was brewing with Great Brit- 
ain as well as with France, and many 
feared that the great Corsican himself 
would turn his arms across the waters 
to our shores. The hand of General 
Hoyt may be seen in the action of the 
Board of Trustees of Deerfield Acad- 
emy, when in 1806 a new professor- 
ship was established. It was for teach- 
ing the "Theoretical and Practical Art 
of War viz: — tactics according to Stu- 
ben and Dundas . . . Practical Ge- 
ometry on the Ground; Elements of 
Fortifications, and the Construction 
of small works in the Field; Elements 
of Gunnery; Topography; Military 
History; Partisan War, or War of 
Posts; . . . These subjects will be un- 
der the direction of Major Hoyt, 
Brigade Inspector. ... It is be- 
lieved that the Present Critical Situa- 
tion of our Country will induce young 
men to qualify themselves for an hon- 
orable defence against every hostile 
attack on their native land and lay a 
foundation for military Glory." 

But our genius sacrificed not alone 
upon the shrine of Mars. Gradually, 
as the years went on, the little cottage 
on the Albany road became the un- 
doubted center of mental activity for 
Northern Hampshire. Around its 
hearthstone the young men gathered 
and listened to discussions of the most 
abstruse problems, not only of war, 
but of philosophy and pure science. 
Here space was measured with a line, 
the trackless star was traced to its hid- 
ing place by day, the sun after his go- 
ing down at night, and a path waS 
predicted for the erratic comet. Some 
of the results of these hearthstone 



ON THE ALBANY ROAD. 



II 



studies are with us in published works 
on astronomy, mihtary science and 
colonial history by Hoyt, and on 
mathematics, biblical criticism, civil 
law and general literature by Rodol- 
phus Dickinson, one of his young 
friends. 

Another boy of whom the world 
has heard received here his inspiration 
and here enjoyed his first laurels. Half 
a dozen rods from the great east win- 
dow, Epaphras and Experience could 
see Mercy, sister of the General and 
wife of Justin Hitchcock, as she 
leaned from her pantry window for a 
morning chat, or busied herself about 
her back yard chores, her chickens 
and her geese. Among her two- 
legged cares was a bright, dark-eyed 
boy, the torment of her life, who early 
came under the influence of his 
"Uncle Ep." As a mere lad he would 
eagerly listen to the talk round his 
uncle's hearthstone, and as he grew in 
years his love for the truths of science 
kept pace w^ith his hatred of the great 
usurper Napoleon; for all along he 
had drunk in the current talk which 
represented this master of the art of 
war as a blood-thirsty tyrant, a cruel 
monster, whose pastime was the mur- 
der of women and children. Pictuie 
the scene at the cottage on the even- 
ing of Monday, March 4, 1805, as the 
General read the latest news, that 
three months before, at Notre Dame, 
Bonaparte had been crowned emperor 
of France. Did hatred for the French 
nation prevent even pity for its fate? 
Did righteous indignation or dread 
despair for sufifering humanity come 
uppermost in the minds of the assem- 
bled group? One year lacking a day, 
other news came, and to the hearers 
the tables seemed turned. With what 
joy they heard the General read from 
the Greenfield Gazette a highly colored 
account of the success of Alexander 
and the allied army over the French 
in a battle of December 2, 1805, 
and the comments —7 that "sanguine 
hopes are now entertained in Europe 
that Bonaparte has at length arrived 
at the termination of his career." 




"NOW SILENTLY RESTING IN MEMORIAL 
HALL." 

This was the first report by the way 
of England of the battle of Austerlitz, 
a battle in which Napoleon gained 
one of his greatest victories over the 
combined armies of Russia and Aus- 
tria. The fulfilment of these "san- 
guine hopes" was not yet. More coun- 
tries were to be overrun, and more 
thrones to be overturned; thousands 
of widows and orphans were yet to 
taste the horrors of war. At length, 
however, Bonaparte's hour struck. 
June 3, 1814, a hand-bill was received 
at Deerfield, which was published in 
the Franklin Herald of June 7, con- 
taining the joyful news that the allied 
armies had entered Paris and that the 
emperor was a fugitive. We of this 
dav can hardly imagine the excite- 
ment and the thanksgiving which fol- 
lowed this announcement; and of all 
the coterie of the little brown house, 
not one was more strongly impressed 
than the "bright, dark-eyed boy." Ed- 
ward Hitchcock. He at once began 
his tragedy, "The Downfall of Bona- 



12 



THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE 



parte." In its pages can be seen re- 
flected the sentiment of the time, 
which ranked Napoleon as the most 
heartless and crnel despot the sun 
ever shone upon, and Alexander, the 
czar of Russia, as the friend of human- 
ity and the prince of peace. It gives 
us queer notions of our democracy to 
see the emperor stigmatized in this 
production as "a mud sprung reptile," 
"a filthy toad," a "base born Corsi- 
can." This tragedv, which covered 
the leading events of the rise and fall 
of Napoleon, was put upon the 
boards and acted by the leading lights 
of Deerfield in the old meetinghouse, 
part of the pews being floored over 
for a stage. This was the event of that 
generation, and the assumed names 
of the actors clung to many of them 
through life. In my boyhood, the 
names of Blucher and Nev, Lescourt 



author and his fellows, as they spouted 
the lurid lines before the critic in re- 
hearsal for the stage; and the copyist 
was doubtless often vexed by changes 
in the text in order to insert some new 
technical military phrase or let in a 
little more blood and thunder. How 
wide a circulation this historic effu- 
sion had is not known; but Horace 
Greeley relates that when an appren- 
tice at Poultney, Vermont, the tragedy 
was acted there, and he personated 
one of the characters. In after years, 
President Hitchcock made efforts to 
suppress this callow efifort of his 
genius, and copies are scarce in con- 
sequence. Under the lead of his 
uncle, young Hitchcock; became an 
ardent student of astronomy and, 
making a practical application of his 
acquirements, constructed the astro- 
nomical tables for a series of almanacs 




OLD-TIME CHEER. 



and Platofif were as familiar as house- 
hold words. 

This tragedy was evidently com- 
posed under the eye of General Hoyt, 
for his ear-marks can be seen on al- 
most every page. The low ceiling of 
Aunt Spiddy's kitchen must have 
looked down a hundred times on the 



which he published at Deerfield. 
Some of his problems were questioned 
by the astronomers of Europe; but 
with General Hoyt at his back he 
maintained his ground, and after a 
sharp contest his positions were at 
length admitted as proven by the 
Continental Magnates. Doubtless 



ON THE ALBANY ROAD. 



13 



the big- fireplace echoed the rejoicing 
which followed this victory of a self- 
made Deerfield boy over the savants 
of Europe. And well it mig-ht, — for 
had it not for years been throwing 
light from its pine knots on these 
knotty questions? 

General Hoyt was a graduate of the 
Deerfield district school. Edward 
Hitchcock had in addition a few win- 
ter terms at the Deerfield Academy, 
and this was his Alma Mater. Al- 
though professor, and later president 
of a college, and the recipient of colle- 
giate honors from far and wide, he 
never saw as a pupil the inside of any 
college walls, and he may well be 
called a graduate of the little brown 
cottage on the old Albany road. Per- 
haps the honor must be shared with 
the great elm tree under which it 
nestled so snugly, with its moss cov- 
ered roof. It is related that the Gen- 
eral and his nephew were in the habit 
of fleeing, to escape the disturbance 
from the children and the swash of 
Aunt Spiddy's mop on the floor, to a 
seat among the branches of this even 
then giant tree, to study their most 
profound problems; and here Edward 
spent many a studious hour, refusing 
to join in the pastimes of his compan- 
ions. Certain it is that the seat in the 
old tree was a favorite place of resort, 
not only for the General and the future 
president, but also for their growing 
sons and daughters. 

Hoyt had such an appreciation of 
and admiration for the Duke of Wel- 
lington, that, in 181 1, he named his 
only son after him, Arthur Wellesley, 
thus anticipating the fame the Iron 
Duke gained later at Salamanca and 
Waterloo. European wars did not, 
however, wholly engross the attention 
of Hoyt. He is best known to-day by 
his "Antiquarian Researches" con- 
cerning the Indian wars of New Eng- 
land, a work of great value to students 
of New England history. 

The rise and progress of the events 
which led to the War of Impressment 
with England must have been 
watched with the deepest interest and 



discussed in all their bearings under 
the roof-tree of the Inspector Gen- 
eral's cottage. Here would the patri- 
otic citizens gather; here would be 
first heard the declaration of the war, 
and here first came the stirring news 
of our gallant naval victories so unex- 
pected by either of the belligerents; 
and here, we may be sure, were sung 
the spirited songs they inspired. The 
General was not gifted in song, but 
what he lacked in tone and harmony 
he made up in energy, and doubtless 
the rafters shook as he emphasized the 
sentiment of Chancellor Kilty's varia- 
tion of "Britannia Rule the Wave." 

"For see, Columbia's sons arise, 
Firm, independent, bold and free; 

They too shall seize the glorious prize, 
And share the empire of the sea; 

Hence then, let freemen rule the waves, 
And those who yield them still be 
slaves;" 

or as he joined in Ray's stirring lyric; 

"Too long has proud Britannia reigned 

The tyrant of the sea. 
With guiUless blood her banners stain'd, 
Ten thousand by impressment chain'd, 

Whom God created free;" 

or in the rollicking tribute to Commo- 
dore Perry; 

"Hail to the chief, now in glory advancing, 
Who conquered the Britons on Erie's 

broad wave; 
Who play'd Yankee Doodle to set them 

a-dancing, 
Then tripp'd up their heels for a watery 

grave." 

We have seen that the General did 
not live then, as in later years, in 
scholastic seclusion. Neitherwashean 
exclusive devotee to science and mili- 
tary art. He was an active tnan of 
afTairs, with a wide-spread political in- 
fluence, and was, in fact, one of the 
river gods. He was post-master 
and registrar of deeds for Northern 
Hampshire; and hundreds of pages 
written by his daughter, Fanny, by 
the light from the east window are 
now daily consulted by the public. 
The little brown cottage was also the 



^4 



THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE 



center of the executive power of the 
new county of Franklin, for the Gen- 
eral was high sheriff. We may trust 
that when he went in state to open 
the courts. Aunt Spiddy saw to it 
that his blue, brass-buttoned coat was 
scrupulously clean, that his cockade 
and crimson silk sash were properly 
arranged, and the hangings of his 
dress sword were spotless as the sun. 

Time changes all things. The phil- 
osopher and friend, the student and 
the guide, the man of science and the 
man of power departed; and of his 
kith and kin the only representative 
left to-day on the old Albany road is 
a young woman who revels in the 
quick wit and the flight of imagina- 
tion which she inherited from an un- 
expended balance in the large brain 
of her great grandfather, Epaphras 
Hoyt. 

No greater contrast can be con- 
ceived than that between some of the 
early occupants and those who now 
for a year and a day make their abode 
in the little brown house, — Rufus 
Rice and his fitting mate, Esther. 
Rufus was a first class representative 
of the typical Yankee, keen, shrewd 
and honest in business, droll and 
witty in words, wise, careful and far- 
sighted in action. He was the 
founder of the fourpence-ha'pennv 
packet express between Deerfield and 
Greenfield, which still flourishes un- 
der the whip of his grandson, another 
Rufus. "Express Rice" had small 
opportunity for book learning in 
youth; but his judgment was sound, 
and he came to be much relied upon 
in business by the manless maiden, 
the distressed widow, and the skilless 
professor. One of the latter class, 
after vain struggle to repair a water 
conduit, called in Mr. Rice. The 
following brief conversation illus- 
trates the prominent traits in both the 
interlocutors: 

"I find," says the Professor, "after 
thoughtful consideration and re- 
peated, carefully conducted experi- 
ments with this preparation, that all 
my attempts are fruitless, and that 



the water still continues to exude 
copiously." 

"O, yaas, yaas, fix it so 't '11 alius 
leak like sixty." 

'T am compelled to acquiesce in 
your decisions; but, Mr. Rice, may I 
inquire what methods you would 
recommend to — " 

"O, I'll git it flxt as right 's a hoe- 
handle. Don't you give yourself no 
more trouble about it." 

In sorrowfully condoling with Mr. 
Rice on the great loss he had sustained 
in the death of his son, the Professor 
remarked with his voice full of tears, 
"I understand, sir, that your son 
possessed a considerable amount of 
mechanical ingenuity, that in fact he 
had proved his constructive talent 
in practical achievements under ad- 
verse circumstances, and with great 
lack of needful appliances." 

"O, yaas! yis, you give Seth a jack- 
knife and gimlet and he'd make eny 
most anything." 

The sphere of Mr. Rice was nar- 
row; he filled it well. He left no 
stain on his character or shadow on 
the little cottage. Neither the hearth- 
stone, the oven, nor the window had 
reason to complain in the companion- 
ship of these honest everyday folk. 

It is said that coming events cast 
their shadow before. With the next 
occupants of the little brown house, 
we will suppose in our musings the 
case is reversed. One of the fleeting 
scroll bears a name well known in bor- 
der warfare, that of Sergeant John 
Hawks, the hero of Fort Massachusetts, 
the compeer of Stark and Putnam, of 
Burke and Rogers and other noted 
partisans of the French and Indian 
wars. He died as colonel at his home 
in Deerfleld Street, next door to that 
of David Hoyt, elder brother of 
Epaphras. Colonel Hawks in his 
old asre snent much time at the "Old 
Indian House," then a tavern, with 
the father of Epaphras as landlord. 
We may be sure that young Epaphras 
improved every opportunity of hear- 
ing the bar-room stories of this 
scnrred veteran of two wars, that he 



ON THE ALBANY ROAD. 



15 



was often at his brother's house, and 
that he haunted the home of the hero 
listening eagerly to his door-stone 
tales. Nor can we doubt that here was 
born the spirit of research which 
seized upon the wide awake bov, and 
that in this primary school he began 
the study of the "Art of War." In 
his "Antiquarian Researches" General 
Hoyt does full justice to the heroism 
of his aged mentor, and many a vivid 
scene of Indian warfare therein pic- 
tured was doubtless in language heard 
from one who could say, "All of this 
I saw and part of which I was;" and 
the old warrior could have asked no 
better medium for a history of his 
deeds. These stories which our three 
steadfast friends had heard rehearsed 
a hundred times in the earlier days, 
the oven, the window and the fire- 
place now heard repeated to a new 
circle of listeners, gathered in the old 
kitchen; for John Hawks, the new- 
comer, had all these tales by heart, 
and took due pride in recounting the 
deeds of his grandsire. But the times 
had changed; blessed peace flooded 
the land, and the stories fell on 
comparatively listless ears. Epaphras 
and his coterie had no successors here. 
The hearthstone was no longer pre- 
sided over by Mars, Clio or Urania. 
With the passing of the shadow, the 
heroic days of the little brown house 
vanished for aye. 

But the shifting scene had not left 
the hearthstone desolate. On the 
ruins of the temple of Mars, the 
genius of music now established an 
altar. The first offering upon this 
was the babe, Charles, the first born 
of John and Emily, his wife, who in 
due time became a devotee of Apollo. 
He was a teacher of sacred music, a 
long time leader of the village choir, 
and, perhaps, through a strain in- 
herited from the hero of Fort Massa- 
chusetts, he was also a lover of mar- 
tial music, organizing and leading 
the village military band. 

Charles Hitchcock, son of Deacon 
Justin and brother of President Ed- 
ward, born on the adjacent lot, was 



the next occupant of the little brown 
house, with the additions of his "Aunt 
Spiddy's porch" and "Aunt Spiddy's 
bed room." Charles was a man of 
versatile tastes, with strong salient 
points in his make-up. His regular 
occupation was farming, but in com- 
mon with his "Uncle Ep" he had a 
taste for local history. He was over- 
flowing with stories and anecdotes re- 
lating to former generations of his 
townspeople which he had accumu- 
lated, the greater part of which are 
now, alas! lost forever. The Anti- 
quary must not be held accountable 
for the loss of this inside view of the 
society of old Deerfield, for at the date 
of Deacon Hitchcock's death he had 
not been invested with the robes of 
the "Oldest Inhabitant." He had, 
however, heard enough from the lips 
of the Deacon to become aware that 
here was a rich storehouse of local 
lore; he had called the attention of 
Professor James K. Hosmer to the 
fact, and had arranged for an inter- 
view in the little brown house, when 
Mr. Hosmer was to take down Dea- 
con Hitchcock's stories in writing. 
This movement proved too late; on 
the very day appointed. Deacon 
Hitchcock was called to a bed of sick- 
ness from which he never rose. This 
circumstance is told as a much needed 
warning to many who might profit 
by it. There are Hitchcocks and 
Hosmers of various grades in every 
community. 

Taking the warning to myself, I 
proceed to make a record, that of 
all the salient points in the character 
of the new owner of the little brown 
house. Deacon Hitchcock's love for 
music was the most notable. That 
was unmistakable. To this the oven, 
the window and the fireplace will 
cheerfully and unanimously testify. 
For it was still before the days ofthe 
iron stove and tin oven that the sing- 
ing master entertained at all hours of 
the day and untimely hours of the 
night his friend the minister, a musi- 
cal composer and writer of hymns. 
Here it was that new theories were 



i6 



THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE 



discussed, new combinations of notes 
tried, and especially new adaptations 
of language to tunes. The melodies 
of the sweet singer of Israel were re- 
leased from the harsh bondage of 
Sternhold and Hopkins, and made to 
clothe the more harmonious measures 
of the minister, while the more lurid 
verses of the uncompromising Watts 
were rehashed or banished without 
compunction to meet the more gen- 
erous interpretation of the Scriptures 
under a milder form of theology. 
The theology being settled, this did 
not trouble the twain, but to adapt the 
piety and beauty of Watts to the new 
conditions and new claims of musical 
science was a task requiring all the 
knowledge and all the skill of these 
earnest enthusiasts; and it was here 
that the Deerfield Collection of Sacred 
Music gradually took on substance 
and form. As the melody of music 
was in their hearts and voices, so the 
science of music was upon their lips; 
they talked earnestly and musefully 
by the light of the east window, the 
tallow candle or the pine knot, of oc- 
tave and compass, of pitch and ac- 
cent, of chords and triads and cadence, 
of points and counterpoints, of can- 
ons finite and canons infinite, of scale 
chromatic and diatonic, of sequence 
and modulation and transformation, 
even unto the weariness and confusion 
of the unlearned. Doubtless the big- 
bellied bass viol, made by Deacon Jus- 
tin, and the pitch pipe he used, both 
now silently resting in Memorial Hall, 
could testify, if summoned, of all these 
things more fittingly and more music- 
ally than the unmusical muser of this 
hour. 

It is natural to assume that Deacon 
Hitchcock inherited from the amateur 
builder of the bass viol his love of 
harmony; but this could not fail to 
be fostered by the example and in- 
fluence of William Bull, the composer 
and publisher of a musical treatise, 
who lived next door to the house in 
which Charles was born and brought 
up. However this may be, when 
Charles in early manhood became in- 



timately associated with Samuel Wil- 
lard, the unshackled minister of free 
thought and free expression, a great 
opportunity was given him for culti- 
vating and refining his strong native 
talent. The new friendship was har- 
monious and mutually helpful. The 
saintly Dr. Willard did not, indeed, 
dwell beneath this roof, but his hal- 
lowed voice seems on this occasion to 
echo from wall and ceiling, conjured 
up, it may be, by the subdued melody 
evoked by the skillful touch of his 
musically inspired granddaughter. 

Meanwhile the warm-hearted oven 
and the cheerful fireplace, ignoring 
all ancient rivalry, clung together as 
fast friends under the same mantel- 
tree, while the great east window 
smiled serenely on both. Well and 
faithfully each of the three served 
in its own way those who under- 
stood their secrets and their power. 
Charles, the singer, had readily made 
friends with the musical fireplace, but 
he understood not the mysteries lying 
in the depths of the oven; they were 
unfathomable to him. When he had 
pondered for a time what he should 
do, he hied away to the hills beyond 
the valley to the home of the setting 
sun, even to the house of Isaac, sur- 
named Baker. Now Isaac had a 
comely daughter who had aforetime 
looked with favor upon the itinerant 
singing master, and after a short re- 
sponsive wooing the twain became 
one. There were literally "no cards" 
for the wedding party. The venerable 
secretary of the Pocumtuck Valley 
Memorial Association, then a boy of 
ten, gave out the invitations verbally 
from door to door. 

It was on a birthday of Washing- 
ton three score and ten years agone, 
that the friends of Charles and Lois 
held high festival within these walls, 
and so was celebrated the advent of 
the bride and the new mistress, who 
then began a new life here with our 
three friends, and with the pantry of 
Bathsheba and Silence and Experi- 
ence. These were all glad of her com- 
ing, especially the oven, which well 



ON THE ALBANY ROAD. 



17 



knew that, although no longer a 
Baker by name, she would continue to 
practice the art; and from its mouth 
came abundant profifers of good cheer, 
and thenceforth it gave Lois loyal and 
warm-hearted service. The pantry 
vied with the oven in the welcome. Al- 
though its shelves were weighted with 
pounds of pound cake, piles and piles 
of pies, dishes of doughnuts, jars of 
jams and jellies, baskets of bread and 
biscuits, cakes of cheese, plates of 
cookies and gingerbread — these long 
shelves, ranged one above another, 
their edges newly decked with scalloped 
paper, laughed cheerily as they dis- 
played their tempting treasures to the 
optics and olfactories. Had a vote of ap- 
proval been then and there taken, it is 
doubtful whether the ayes or the noes 
would have carried it. All these culi- 
nary preparations had been made by 
volunteer friends of the groom under 
the lead of Aunt Hannah Hoyt, sister 
of our friend, the General. Being the 
head of the commissariat, she wore on 
this occasion, as the insignia of her 
office, the big gilded epaulettes of the 
bridegroom. Tallow candles made 
luminous spots here and there in the 
darkness. The electricity of that day 
shone on the faces and was manifest in 
the spirits and light movements of the 
guests. 

In the glowing hickory coals under 
the forestick lurked the loggerhead at 
a red heat. Cool mugs of home- 
brewed beer, flanked with eggs and 
sugar, stood hard by. ready to meet 
the fire fiend in a friendly contest. The 
result of all the hissing and foaming 
and spluttering which followed was 
like that of many heated, wordy com- 
bats: each side claimed the victory. 
In fact, however, the red iron always 
turned black and retreated under the 
forestick for reenforcements, while 
the mug of flip went briskly about, 
cheered by, and cheering in turn, the 
company. On this occasion it was 
flanked by a big tumbler of Santa 
Cruz toddy, which was passed to old 
and young. 

Singing and playing games, like the 



"Needle's eye" or the "Barberry 
bush," may have been indulged in; 
but one amusement of wedding par- 
ties of the day, "Chasing the bride 
round the chimney," certainly was 
not. The oven objected to the game 
and would not budge ; it stood sturdily 
the whole evening, blocking the only 
path. It still objects, and still holds 
its position. 

Dancing, which at divers times and 
places, has been up and down the 
gamut of public opinion, from the 
lowest bass, where it was considered 
the most subtle device of Satan for the 
ingathering of souls, to the highest 
pitch of piety, where it ministered to 
the exaltation of saints, — dancing at 
this time in Deerfield was ranging 
among the joyous notes and was at 
high tide of popular favor; it was an 
especial accessory to wedding festiv- 
ity, — and certainly the centennial of 
Washington's birthday and the wed- 
ding day of Charles and Lois was cele- 
brated with the customary decorous 
hilarity. It is safe to assume that 
Harry, the brother of Charles, was 
master of ceremonies in this feature of 
the entertainment, for he was an ar- 
dent disciple of Terpsichore. We hear 
of one noteworthy occasion when 
Harry sacrificed his desire for this di- 
version on the altar of friendship or, 
perhaps, of friendship and indignation 
combined. It was the day when the 
mutual friend of the brothers, the mu- 
sical minister, had been refused ordi- 
nation by an adverse Council. Harry, 
in behalf of the young people, wrote a 
feeling letter notifying the rejected 
candidate that in consequence of their 
sympathy for him at the action of the 
Council the Ordination Ball arranged 
for the evening would be given up. 

The music furnished to regulate the 
tripping footsteps on such occasions 
was usually the sympathetic fiddle, — 
the young chaps chipping in to hire 
a fiddler. If none was available, some 
of the musical ones would set and 
keep the time by singing, or hum- 
ming, or calling, or some combination 
of these methods. The muser recalls 



i8 



THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE 



one occasion when as the merest shp 
of a boy he went with his sister to "a 
neighbor party" and witnessed what 
would be called in the slang of to-day a 
"kitchen shin-dig." The hostess, Mis- 
tress Sabrina, inspired and directed the 
old-fashioned contra dances in her long 
kitchen. Fragments of the sights and 
sounds still remain with me, im- 
pressed, it may be, by a knowledge of 
the parties, and by seeing the personal 
application. The director was perched 
upon the loom at one end of the room, 
whence her voice rang out with a free 
and easy swing somewhat like this, 
with all necessary adaptations: 



do not particularize, it cannot be as- 
serted. For the same reason it must 
be left to the imagination to picture 
how Captain Hannah beckoned Lois 
from the bright firelight of the 
kitchen into Aunt Spiddy's dim little 
bed room for mysterious conference 
with certain wise matrons, her new 
aunts, and how Experience gave her 
timely words of advice and warning 
from her ample store of hard earned 
knowledge, or how Marcy and Betsey 
and Persis showered upon her max- 
ims of wisdom for her guidance in her 
new sphere, and how the words of her 
mentors fell upon the ears of the 




"Now cross over my son Stoddard, 
tum tum diddle dum, tum tum diddle 
dum — down outside now my son 
Amos, tum tum diddle dum, tum tum 
diddle dum, come to your ma now 
'Lisa Ann Parker, you're not big 
enough, you're not big enough, right 
and left now Jane Alcesta, tum tum 
diddle dum, tum tum diddle dum, 
down in the middle Stoddard Wil- 
liams, tum tum diddle dum, tum tum 
diddle dum." 

This lady was about the age of 
Charles, and was doubtless at the 
wedding, and perhaps her peculiar tal- 
ent may have been called into requisi- 
tion; but as this is a tale of verities and 
the scrolls of the household familiars 



happy and trustful bride with the 
same abiding effect as water show- 
ered upon the back of the proverbial 
duck. 

The year hand on the clock of time 
crept on. For two-score years Charles 
the singer and Lois the baker abode 
together under the roof tree of the 
little brown cottage, growing browner 
year by year, and then were gathered 
to their fathers. Of the two children 
who first saw the light within these 
walls, Justin took unto himself a help- 
meet and dwelt in a new house hard 
by, but Harriet remained alone in the 
old home. Three decades passed. 
Time was left unmolested to work his 
will upon the failing habitation and its 



ox THE .^ LB A XV ROAD. 



19 



forlorn, clouded inmate. Little by lit- 
tle the roof gaped here and there as if 
to invite the rain, the hail and the 
snow. The floor of the square room 
and the pantry of Bathsheba found 
sad companionship in the dark yawn- 
ing cellar. Ruin and decay rioted in 
Aunt Spiddy's bed room. The linger- 
ing partitions, black with grime and 
smoke and festooned with dust-laden 
cobwebs, faltered and staggered. 
Still, Harriet with bent form and tot- 



tering steps clung steadfastly to the 
old-time home, all for love of it and 
for the associations which filled every 
nook and cranny. All else failing, she 
crept close to our three old friends for 
sympathy and cheer, and the staunch 
fireplace, the tried oven and the great 
east window proved as true to Harriet 
as Harriet was true to this taleful relic 
of by-gone days — the little brown 
house on the old colonial road to Al- 
bany. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



014 077 369 4 { 



